Tides
by Lidell
Summary: "I already broke once. I don't think I could fix myself twice." The story of Annie Cresta's Hunger Games. In the arena, it is a battle against the cruelties of the Capitol as much as it is a struggle against the darkness of her own mind.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters, contexts, and plots of _The Hunger Games_ series belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

There are two sorts of people in District 4. Those who get their feet wet, and those who don't. It's a distinction that is reinforced by the civil planning of our district, which winds along the shore. The rich, or I should say, the relatively richer, live a few miles from the ocean, up in the hills. Most of them are involved with processing and packaging; they spend their workdays in the factories, with the machines. They're definitely a minority. The rest of us are responsible for bringing in the haul. We spend our days out in boats, our hands rubbed raw from handling fishing nets, the sea salt permanently crusting in our hair. We live in the squashed huts and cabins down by the beach; when it's high tide, the water rushes up to our front steps. The poorest of the coast families sit on their roofs when the water level rises. The property tax is cheapest there.

My father used to say that it's a subconscious desire on the part of the hill people, to get away from the sea. Every time I asked him why and he'd always sit me on his knee to explain. He said that even though the hill families seem despicable to us, throwing parties and living it up in poor and pathetic imitation of the citizens of the Capitol, they can never escape the smell and the sting of the sea. They might have grown affluent on the bounty and commerce of the ocean, but every way you look at it, it's a designated industry. It was never a choice for any of the hill people to go into fishing. Dad said that even the largest houses up on the slope are designed, with their ceiling-to-floor windows, to remind them of where their wealth comes from. He said that the next time I felt upset at their blatant pretensions that I should take a deep breath and remember that they're just as much under the heel of the Capitol as we are. Maybe even more.

Perhaps it's true. Even though I remember Dad's words, I'm not sure I understand them even now, nine years after his death. But I do understand that even if I had all the money in the world, I wouldn't choose to live more than a stone's throw from the shore.

It's a few weeks into summer and already the sun is scorching. It's late afternoon and the sand that's been baking all day is searing under my bare feet. Unlike many of my friends and most of the kids in the district, my skin burns and peels instead of tanning a beautiful golden brown. I can feel the tip of my nose, already frying. Again.

Most of the coast kids don't bother with shoes. I have a pair of woven flip-flops slung over my right shoulder, tied together with a length of frayed rope cut off a fishing net no longer sturdy enough for regular usage. In my left hand, I carry a small bag, full of still-alive shrimp. We are low on supplies, especially food, and I have to fight the ache to reach into the bag, take one out. Crack open the shell for the flesh. Suck out the brains. But my aunt has measured three pounds exactly and whoever's at the exchange will see that miniscule difference and condemn me for it.

Usually I'd be able to get away with just one shrimp. But everyone's always nervous and on edge around reaping time, and the reaping for this year is tomorrow.

It's a bad time for my cousin Raff to need new glasses.

Liam is on guard at the exchange. Being on guard means that he sits on the huge boulder that blocks the view to the cove, apparently doing nothing more than tying a piece of rope over and over again, picking his teeth, and sunbathing. He doesn't acknowledge me as I stand a small distance away from the rock, seemingly only squatting and staring at the ocean. My fingers pick their way over two perfectly formed sand dollars. But I am watching Liam out of the corner of my eye. Eventually, he scratches the arch of his right foot with his index finger. With a burst of speed, I run around the rock, out of the Peacekeepers' binocular vision. I'll thank Liam the day after tomorrow, when we're both back at school.

The tiny cove hidden by the boulder could most likely fit only twenty people comfortably. Instead, there are at least three dozen people here, all haggling for wares in hushed voices. For the past two decades, the Peacekeepers have strongly suspected that this cove is a centre for black market activity, but every single time they raid they find nothing here, just the smelly fragrance of a cove that catches the refuse of the ocean. Their incursions are unproductive because they target the mouth of the cove, to which there is only one path, and that's around the boulder. They don't know about the tiny, well-hidden crack near the back of the cove, an entrance to a tunnel that winds through the rock to the surface. In their bulky Peacekeeper uniforms, none of them would be able to get through. I've never had to evacuate, but I've climbed it before, out of curiosity and as a kind of practise run, in case I'm ever caught and need to shimmy out quick. Forget about Peacekeeper uniforms; if I had ten more pounds on my hips, I'd have significant difficulty squeezing through. I guess it's good that us coast kids never get too well fed.

I ignore the breaded oysters and the steamed fish I can see near the handful of food vendors as I wait for my bag of shrimp to be weighed and "certified" by the exchange adjudicator, instead scanning the packed cove for Leila. She used to be a practising optometrist but the mayor of 4 shut her down when he found that she was taking apart her Capitol-provided medical machines and giving the parts to people who needed the small, delicate springs and screws for home repairs. They took away her license and now she works in the boats like the rest of us. But the district doesn't know about her hoard of lenses and eyeglasses that she uses to support herself on the side. Raff's deteriorating eyesight means that my family is one of her best customers, but she doesn't quite have the lack of heart to milk us for what we're worth. If we went to the fancy optometrist up in hill territory, we'd have been bled dry years ago. She knows we can't afford it, she knows we can barely afford _her_, and she knows just as well that Raff's in genuine need. Hence the three-pound bag of shrimp. Hence the two days my aunt, my cousin, and I will go hungry except for thin sheets of dried seaweed.

"Annie, Annie, Annie," she sighs when, with a huge amount of self-discipline, I make a beeline for her perch on a slimy rock. Her pale blue eyes steadily assess me. I hope that, on the eve of the reaping, she might decide to forgo the lecture. She wants me and my aunt to apply to the mayor, making a special case for Raff's condition. She was his optometrist before her practise was discontinued and she's been telling us again and again that his illness is so rare that we could petition the mayor to send him to the Capitol for testing. But my aunt is paranoid about the "testing" they do there. Sometimes the kids that go there never come back. My aunt won't let him out of her sight, even though Leila grimly promises he'll be blind before he turns eighteen. The thought of that makes my chest clench tight but my aunt won't budge an inch.

Thankfully, Leila chooses to limit her stricture to the expression of extreme admonishment on her face. She takes the bag of shrimp from me and flips a few pages of her grimy notebook for her notes on Raff. The scolding look fades as she finishes scanning the bottom of her notes. I clear my throat. "He says he can't see his outstretched feet any more with the last glasses we got. It's been like that for a while but my aunt… she doesn't want him to have any sort of accident during the reaping ceremony."

Leila nods and closes her book. She digs around in her bag for a case, takes out a pair of glasses, and starts unscrewing one of the lenses. As she works to replace them with lenses with the right focus, I sit down on the damp floor of the cove. In District 4, you won't make it very far if you're picky about your clothes getting wet.

In a few moments, Leila hands the case over to me. Her face is genuinely troubled. "At this rate," she says in a soft voice, "I won't have glasses strong enough for Raff. He'll have to start resigning himself to not being able to see. Do you want me to tell your aunt?"

My throat feels dry, but I manage to mumble, "No, I'll tell her myself." And I take the case with another murmured word of thanks. And I stride out of there as fast as I can without seeming rude, my stomach no longer reacting to the appetising smell of food I can never afford.

* * *

My name is Annie Cresta. I am seventeen, and tomorrow my name will go into that great big glass ball thirty-six times.

It's not bad, compared to some of the other coast kids, who have more siblings than I can fathom. In fact, it's just me, my aunt, and Raff. I've put my name in three extra times, one for each of us, and then two more times. When Raff turned twelve, he was dead set on entering his name multiple times too, for the extra tesserae. We wouldn't let him. He's a stubborn one though, so eventually what made him cave was me, begging him on my hands and knees. I told him I'd enter my name more times, so we could have the portions he would have gotten as well. He couldn't argue with that, though his eyes brimmed with angry tears. In District 4, a tessera is supposed to be a year's worth of mush and oil. But most of the time, the portions we pick up from the quartermaster's warehouse are significantly less. Some of the coast adults mutter furiously that it's because they think we skive off the tops of the hauls. We do, but only because we'd starve otherwise. It's a vicious cycle and I don't know who started it, the administration or us. But because they give us less grain and oil, we take more fish. So they give us even less grain and oil. Then we take even more fish.

But we never take that much, because we need to meet our quotas. So each year we get hungrier and hungrier. While the hill families eat delicacies we can't even imagine. Scallops. Lobsters. Crabs. I know my resentment isn't entirely fair, because on the years one of the hill kids, some of who've been trained to kill for a living, wins the Hunger Games, they send their monthly packages of food down to the shore. But they lord it over us in such a way I feel even more resentful. And helpless, always helpless.

It's why I love the ocean so much. It's an escape. My house (I never think of it as 'home') where I live with my aunt and cousin is heavy with the helplessness. When I walk from my bedroom to the kitchen I feel like it's trying to drag me under, wrapping tendrils around my ankles, tugging at me to surrender to the current. I have no privacy there. We live in a very small house, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom that can barely fit a toilet and a shower stall. Raff likes being alone and we indulge him, so my aunt and I sleep together on a thin, threadbare cot. I'd rather sleep under the stars, on the sand, but sometimes the Peacekeepers make a sweep of the beach, and they'd probably haul me to the community centre without even asking whether I have a home or not. They would just assume that I'm homeless. It's not an uncommon predicament, down by the water.

I clamber over the soft sand incline, the glasses case firmly in my shorts pocket, my thoughts ranging over distances I can never hope to cover on foot. Dad called me his little dreamer, and I suppose I am. He also said that I have an eye for beauty, not that it's ever been helpful. In fact, it's probably verging on _un_helpful, but I can't do anything about it. He told me that my sensitivity and my kindness are two of my greatest strengths. My aunt thinks otherwise. Most of the time, I agree with her. When I recall my dad though, I'm always with him. No one could do what he did with his hands. The objects he could weave from mere rope could take my breath away. It hurts to think about him for too long, so I dip into my mind for his images only occasionally.

The sun is beginning to set as I approach my house and I force my thoughts into strict organisation. My aunt doesn't like my daydreaming and as I can never explain to her what's going on in my head without that withering glare, we've reached an unspoken truce. I concentrate on the real world when I'm around her and she keeps the hurtful reprimands to a minimum. I hang my flip-flops on a peg by the door and take a deep breath before I step inside. My hand is around the glasses case as my aunt turns around swiftly, her face for a split second betraying the intense mixture of misery and hope she feels. When I pull it out of my pocket to show her, her expression is stony again. She grabs them from my hand without a word of thanks and stalks down the hallway to Raff's room.

My aunt and I have a rocky relationship.

There was a time when she would braid my hair and she'd sing me songs from her childhood, songs that once were on every child's lips in District 4 before singing became too frivolous. When my father died, she was the one who volunteered to take me in so I wouldn't have to go to the orphanage, despite the hardships she knew it would entail. My uncle was already dead by then, dead for five years, drowned far out at sea on a fishing expedition trying to bag some of the rarer types of fish. There was a storm. When the boat was towed back into harbour, the entire deck was pulverised and the mast cleanly snapped in half, like it was nothing more than a toothpick. There were only two survivors and my uncle Hallam, who always had a kind word and a small chip of peppermint candy for me, was not one of them. My aunt was suddenly on her own, with Raff to look after. She was struggling enough already trying to feed the two of them. I would have understood if she chose to send me to the orphans' home. In fact, I may have a harder time understanding why she _did_ take me in.

That's all in the past. Before we found out about Raff's illness. Every coast family counts on their children working once they're twelve, helping sail the boats and meet the quota. When it became clear that Raff, with his debilitating migraines and abysmal eyesight, wouldn't be able to do anything, she closed off. Toughened up. Why she did that, I understand perfectly.

I understand, but it still sort of hurts.

What's the worst is that she looks so much like Dad. So sometimes, in the pale candlelight or when I only see her profile silhouetted against the window, I almost feel like crying at the sight of her, thinking that her features will soften like Dad's used to do. That she'll rub my back and brush my hair. That she'll let me into the dark, unhappy place of her doubts and fears. At seventeen, I'm practically an adult. Some girls barely a year older than me get married and start their own families. I'm sure I can help. It's this silent and unwavering rejection of my presence that is the most painful spot in our relationship, I think. Yet I know there's nothing I can do. So I let it be.

Down the hallway, in Raff's shoebox of a room, I can hear my aunt's voice, cajoling with him about something. Their relationship tires me as much as mine and my aunt's does. Because I can't stand the sight of them bickering at the moment, I say in a slightly raised voice that I'm going to go for a walk. Then I grab my coat and go. It occurs to me on my way out that if Raff is reaped tomorrow, I'll never live down my selfishness. But he's thirteen and has his name in the bowl only twice. The odds are in his favour as much as they can be.

My odds are considerably worse, but nothing that exciting would ever happen to me.

* * *

My feet angle towards the emptier part of the beach. Where I live, the houses are built tightly side by side, the porch in front of the doors acting as one long communal doormat. The walls are thin and we can hear our neighbours like we're really all living in the same house. We're not the poorest in the district, as my aunt makes a higher income as an employee by the fish farms, but we're definitely coast folk. It doesn't bother me like it bothers some of my friends and the girls who surreptitiously watch the hill boys. I don't have time for watching boys. I don't even pay that much attention in school any more. School is mandatory until eighteen but from the age of twelve those who request it can have half-days, so they can go down to the harbour for a little extra currency for their families. I've been doing it since I turned twelve. Some of the hill kids never take a half-day, unless it's to spend the afternoon giggling with their friends. They can afford the luxury of dating and caring about boys. I can't.

Still, sometimes I wonder what it would be like, if I met a boy and fell in love. After all, I'm fast approaching the age when boys and girls actively begin looking for mates. After a certain fiasco a few years ago which involved our birth rate taking a nose dive, there are some economic incentives to getting married young. If you get married between eighteen and twenty-one, the new couple receives a trifling amount from the mayoral office. It's not much, but it's still a week of hard labour on the boats. If they're relatively certain, girls and boys get married as soon as possible. Maybe my aunt is even expecting it of me. The thought is chilling and I pull my coat tighter around my spindly shoulders.

For what feels like half an hour or so, I walk in silence. I'm almost by the oyster farms, which means I've gone about two miles. It's much emptier here. The only people who live here are the farm employees and their families. They're coast people too, but they have the rare extravagance of open space, of not bumping into three people every time you take a step.

They also get to eat a lot of oysters. It's not like us fishing folk. The fishermen are hard pressed to meet the quotas every single week. But a few decades ago, the Capitol sent in tons and tons of genetically engineered oysters. They were perfect clones, exactly like the ones you find in the ocean, every single one of them. They set up huge programs for us in District 4 to harvest them. Not for their meat, but for their pearls. The thinking was that if pearls were a matter of "one in a thousand," they'd up those odds. But none of those oysters, even though they're perfect in every other way, have ever managed to squeeze out even a single pearl. Maybe it's a message from nature. Whatever it is, it ticked off the Capitol and even though results are always horrendous, they insist on the pearl harvesting programs running as usual. The upshot of that is that the designated oyster farm people can eat as many as they want. They won't be missed among the thousands and thousands of oysters that remain in the water as a reminder of the Capitol's wounded pride. And wasteful power. Though there are enough oysters for the entirety of District 4 to have a great feast for a whole week, they're kept under lock and key. Tall mesh fences surround the oyster rock beds. If you don't have the right chip woven into an employee glove, it stuns you even if you brush it accidentally and leaves you floating senseless in the water until either the Peacekeepers come or you drown.

Because I don't want to go back to the house just yet, I sit on the slightly pebbly beach, a few yards from the mesh fence. It is one huge benefit about living right by the ocean. The sunsets are always glorious. Today, it's like the sun has been cracked like an egg, and yolk and blood mingles as it sinks dying into the waves. I let out a tiny laugh. I must be getting into the spirit of the reaping tomorrow.

"Laughing to yourself, Annie? That's a sure sign of madness, you know." I jump and swivel around ungraciously to look at the figure approaching from the back. And then I blush. The last person on earth whom I want to see when I'm laughing to myself is approaching. Gavin Figueras is one of the oyster farm kids; right now he's holding two huge bags of them. Despite my embarrassment, my mouth floods with saliva at the thought of shucking those shells and digging in. I suppress my hunger and give him a sheepish smile. "Hi, Gavin. Something just struck me as funny."

He sits down beside me. The bags make two large indents as they settle in the sand. "Care to share what it is?"

I look back at the sunset as I consider how possibly no one could think the sun bleeding to death into the sea is humorous. A few moments pass as I think of alternatives but Gavin saves me the trouble. "See, there you are. Annie Cresta, being all mysterious again." His comment takes me so much by surprise I stare directly into his soft brown eyes. I once heard two hill girls raving about chocolate. I've never had it but I imagine they'd taste exactly how Gavin's eyes look. I blush again, suddenly glad for the sunset and how it might disguise the colour of my face. I'm also very aware of the tip of my nose, which must be, by this time, very unattractively burnt.

"I'm not mysterious," I say. He only laughs.

I've known Gavin for most of my life, as his father used to work with my dad before he was lucky enough to be assigned to the farms. He's a year older than me and after my dad died we haven't seen each other much. But he's always been incredibly kind. Plus, he's grown up well. Very well. His dark brown hair and eyes even make the hill girls look twice, stand straighter, lick their lips. I don't know how he takes it, as when he passes at school I'm usually studying the tops of my shoes. When we were toddler playmates, we promised we'd get married. But that was more than a decade since and it discomfits me, the idea that I still remember such childhood nothings while he moved on years ago.

Still, it's comfortable and nerve-wracking all at once, watching the sunset in silence with Gavin sitting beside me. As the last gush of blood fades into water on the distant horizon, I stand. "I'd better get back," I say, suddenly unable to look at Gavin again. He reaches a hand out for me to help him up though so I do, and it occurs to me that it's the first time I've touched him years. My palm feels cold and prickly, an odd combination. He smiles up at me and I shakily return it, thinking I could look at his smile forever.

So much for not thinking about boys.

He picks up his bags after he's brushed the sand off the seat of his shorts. As I let go of his hand, I can't help the desiring look I shoot at the oysters. "Well, I'll see you around," I say, feeling its inadequacy against the shadow of the reaping tomorrow. Suddenly ashamed, I look up at him again (when did he grow so tall?) but the words wishing him good luck die in my throat. He's smiling at me again, but it's a softer smile, as if he's remembering the past. My breath catches in my throat.

"Good luck, Annie." And he bends down. Kisses me on the cheek.

As he jogs away, my voice unsticks. "Good luck to you, too!" I shakily shout after him. He waves a hand in return but doesn't look back. I watch his progress until I realise he's only holding one bag. I look down and the second bag is by my feet. I'm about to call him back when I notice the words in the sand.

_For you._

That night, we have the best meal we've had in months, maybe years. My aunt is mollified by the oysters and Raff, who's only had them one or two times in his life, eats them with gusto. As I haul the shells out to the water's edge to dump, I look up at the bright, blazing vista of stars above me. I won't be free of the Hunger Games until Raff's out of the eligibility pool and there's going to be a lot of suffering in the years ahead as I enter the work force full time, but tonight the responsibility and worry recedes. Tonight, they're as distant as the stars in the sky.

I fall asleep with my back to my aunt, two fingers pressed to my cheek where he kissed me.

* * *

Notes: To be honest, I don't even know why I'm writing this, considering I don't even like _The Hunger Games_ that much. I've always had a soft spot for crazy people, though. Plus Annie seems awesome. All constructive criticism will be welcomed warmly! Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The characters, contexts, and plots of _The Hunger Games_ series belong to Suzanne Collins.

* * *

When I wake, the curtains of my shared bedroom have been pulled back, so the sunshine warms my face and forces my tired eyes open. My aunt is already up; I can hear her bustling about the kitchen. When she's nervous, she fiddles. She needs to have her hands busy repairing or making. My father was her opposite in that sense. They were both known for their skills with handicrafts and for their talent in fixing objects, but Dad never fidgeted needlessly. He was calm and considered. He never spent unnecessary effort.

It's a miserable way to wake up: thinking about the person in the world whom I still love the most and knowing he's not here anymore.

It must be because of the reaping.

District 4 is large, and so is our population. There are too many people to fit in the designated filming area, so only the kids who live within the vicinity of the civic buildings need to attend the "real" ceremony. All the other kids watch on the large screens outside the showground, standing in numbered rows. If one of their names is called out, the Peacekeepers immediately bring the new tribute in and the camera crews edit furiously to make it seem like they stepped straight from the crowd. It's so convincing I sometimes forget they weren't actually there in the first place. Because Raff and I live only four miles from the mayor's office, we are two of the "lucky" kids who stand there silently year after year, trying not to show any emotion as the lenses scan our faces. We dress nicely, keep our expressions blank. Try not to draw attention to ourselves.

The ceremony takes place in the administrative complex that was built on the ruins of a recreational park, from what I understand. After the founding of Panem, this most scenic area was delineated for the government. Dad told me that it's ironic, because what they built on was a type of construction called a 'resort,' which was for people who wanted to have fun. I can't imagine paying money simply to go somewhere and lay around, but it's what they did, apparently. The laziness and the _freedom_ of it shock me. Much of what Dad told me I find incomprehensible, to this day. But I appreciate the irony in this. Once people went there to leisurely pass their days; now the Capitol uses it as a base for the day-to-day dirty work of controlling their citizens. People used to go there whenever they wanted to live; now, only once a year we go there to decide who must die.

Though it seems like pretty clothes are and were important, for both reaping and resort. After a girl was made an example of for wearing the same dress a few years in a row, most of the coast parents get together with all their children's old formal clothes to swap for a day. My aunt does it for Raff and me; I know she's glad I will be a burden in this sense for just one more year. I know that clothing me is a burden. When Dad died, I was only little, so I've never owned any teenage size dresses. She made one and bought one when I was fourteen. That money for the fabric, thread, and the dress could have gone to something else. Therefore I treasure those garments, even though they certainly weren't labours of love, even though they'll be sold as soon as we don't need them anymore. It's sentimental, but I wish I could communicate my desire to wear the one my aunt sewed for my final reaping next year without seeming frivolous. It's a tight fit now, but I can let out the seams at the side, slide some panels of fabric in. Maybe even give it a bit of a waist.

My aunt's raised voice from the kitchen stops me daydreaming. It's been five minutes since I've woken up and the reaping is today. There is no time to muse upon fashion. Raff needs to be hauled out of bed.

Ever since my cousin's best friend was chosen for the Hunger Games when he was nine, Raff's been wildly temperamental on reaping day. Tommy was fourteen, and he was one of the only kids at school who loved reading as much as Raff did. They bonded over books. Watching him get picked was nauseating. It was agony, and I didn't even know him half as well as Raff did. Tommy was visibly perspiring on screen; the sweat ran thick and fast over his eyebrows, beaded in the corners of his eyes, and dropped like tears. One of the careers volunteered and he was let off the hook, but after that both Raff and Tommy have a completely justified fear of being chosen. I only wish it didn't manifest through Raff's mood swings. I've learned that I need to get my cousin ready before I put on my nice clothes, so I pad to his room in my sleeping t-shirt and shorts, knock twice briskly, and fling open the door in answer to his brusque grunt of acknowledgement.

He's huddled at the end of his bed, his knees pulled tight against his chest. His eyes, magnified by the thick glasses, look haunted. My heart would go out to him, except that a pair of slightly twisted scissors is laid on his pillow, and his dress shoes are lying on the floor in gnawed-looking pieces.

Someone save me from reaping day.

* * *

By the time we leave for the ceremony, my nerves are fried from my aunt and cousin's explosive argument. But being outside is calming: the fresh air, the ocean, and the blue sky would make this day beautiful if it weren't for the ceremony. Raff walks with me a few feet behind my aunt, who is angrily striding further and further ahead. Glancing to the side, I see him watching my profile. We both quickly look away; the awkwardness of it makes me laugh, and I'm delighted when I feel his grin before turning to see it.

He's the one who breaks the silence. "I didn't know they were my dad's shoes, Annie," he says quietly. "I wouldn't have… if I'd known, I promise."

A few moments pass. The sound of the ocean fills the space between us. We're heading there early, so not many other coast families are on their way to the district hall yet. At the rate my aunt's walking, we'll be the first people there. Perhaps it's why I'm deliberately dawdling: I don't want to give the Capitol any reason to notice my family and me. Or I can be honest and say it has more to do with distancing myself from her palpable fury right now. On an impulse, I reach for Raff's hand. He stiffens, so I squeeze tightly before letting go.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," I tell him, because he doesn't. I might tire of his dramatics occasionally, but he's a teenage boy slowly going blind. And when he's not moody he's one of the best kids I know: bright, engaged, alive with curiosity. Sometimes he forgets to act sullen for long enough to remind me of my father: the way Raff immediately absorbs what I can barely articulate is similar to Dad's telepathic grasp of my emotions.

"Well, thanks anyway," he says quietly. A flock of seagulls flaps by, squawking noisily. It's nearing noon, and the sun is inching towards its highest. Because Raff's repentance never lasts long, I think the conversation is over when he bends, picks a rock, and chucks it after one of the birds lagging behind. "I know I shouldn't pick fights with anyone on reaping day." I'm unprepared for this, and I can't help the little smile that creeps onto my face. When he sees it, he glares at me. "What?"

"I just think… it's not necessary to change the way the world works because something bad is happening to other people," I try explaining. He shakes his head slightly, and I don't know whether it's in disbelief or because he doesn't know what I'm saying. It's why I never share a lot of my thoughts: people don't seem to _get_ them, and I've long concluded that it's (not them, it's) me. I could elaborate, but that would be a bad use of breath. I could try telling Raff that being especially nice on reaping day doesn't change the reality of his relationships. If he were to be kinder, it would only be a product of the fear. It wouldn't be because in his heart he truly feels any different from how he usually does. Though it occurs to me: do negative circumstances invalidate changes for the better? Being nicer could come from anxiety or insincerity, but aren't the consequences the same?

(And this is another reason why I don't share my thoughts: they run on and on. They change quickly; they are often unresolved. Most of the time I have no idea what I really feel or think, but I'm not confused or distressed about it. I'm happy to be feeling and thinking, even though it's a world where I should be doing, only doing.)

"No," Raff suddenly declares, throwing another rock ahead of us, so it skips over the winding path. We are moving into the picturesque grounds surrounding the mayoral estate: the sand here is perfectly white, the shells and occasional sand dollars scattered on the ground are flawlessly shaped, the grass waving in the breeze is pristine. "No. What's going on around you doesn't cancel out good things, even if they were the reason you were encouraged to be better in the first place." He scratches the back of his head self-consciously. "Does that make sense?"

When Raff does this, when he reminds me so strongly of my dad I could cry, I remember that I love my family (or, what's left of my family) beyond what I could ever express with words. And I remember that I'd break in half if anything happened to them.

When my dad died, I already broke once. I don't think I could fix myself twice.

* * *

We walk so slowly that a mile from where the cordoned viewing area for surplus teenagers begins, there are at least a hundred kids in there already. My aunt is waiting by the side, hugging her arms and watching the goodbyes between parents and children with a glazed eye. When I see that her hands are shaking, I think for a split second that she's still mad, but when she sees us her expression changes and I know that she's been regretting her words this morning as much as her son has.

My aunt is not good with words. Dad told me that when they were kids themselves, she spoke with her fists, discussed with her punches. As I hadn't ever lived with her before he died, I only now appreciate her efforts at communication, however failed they are. And I am impressed by her restraint and discipline. However much she may scream at Raff and me, she has never hit us. Not once.

She's biting her lip when we approach. Raff's words are still in my head, so I reach forward and kiss her on the cheek. She seems startled, but pulls me into a hug after a heartbeat. She kisses Raff after she lets go of me. It's been more than a year since she's embraced me like that. "Well," she says. Her voice is husky. "Good luck."

I reach up to kiss Raff right before we enter the filming area. He's with the other thirteen year old kids. "This will be over in two hours," I whisper fiercely, knowing that inside he's quaking at the thought of his name being drawn. "_You will not be chosen._ I promise you." He nods. I feel him straighten his shoulders. I watch him walk to the front of the square, hoping that he can feel my invisible support, before making my way to the seventeens' section.

This square is stunning. The buildings are made of a light pink stone, and even under the blazing sun they seem to glow rather than blind. The windows all around us are made of tiny glass panes and are twice as tall as I am, reaching from the floor to what I imagine is the ceiling inside. They are crooked open slightly so the sheer white curtains flutter in the wind. Small palm trees are placed by the doors, which likewise are all open today (I'm sure because it looks better on camera). Though we all know the podium was erected in the past week, it looks like it's always been a part of district hall. It's along the side of the square that faces out to the open ocean, a clear space held up by columns. I wonder what it's used for normally, that beautiful shaded space. Probably swanky parties for Capitol officials on visits to further assess what more we have to give.

On the podium are the people I've learned to severely dislike, if not hate. The ceremony isn't starting for another half hour, so they are chatting casually. As if it's a garden party. Like two of the kids coming to this ceremony today won't be brutally murdered soon. The mayor of 4 is standing at the centre of the platform; his cronies, the hill folk in charge of the big packaging plants, are sitting in chairs at the edge. The whole entourage from the Capitol are sitting in chairs on either side of the two central spots. A group of former victors are shaking hands and clapping each other on the back, as if they don't live only steps away from each other on Victor's Island, the supposedly tropical paradise I hope I never see. Our district's representative is the only one not socialising: although at the back I can't see him too well, I know what he's doing because he does it every year. He's looking over the kids like we're only toy soldiers being lined up. Sometimes, he seems to recognise a handful of us; when I was fourteen, he stared at me for a whole minute, and the back of my neck broke out in a cold sweat. His eyes are utterly unreadable.

This makes his television persona even more frightening: it's like Titus Kang has a mask he puts on and takes off at will, or he flicks a switch. When the camera is rolling, he bounces about, deep voice rolling, winking and flirting with the audience back in the Capitol. When the camera is off, he is still, cold, and apathetic, even at this distance. Tommy told us that up close he even feels cold. I don't doubt it. This year his carefully combed hair is midnight blue. His suit looks light and expensive. His flamboyant tie is patterned with hippos and flamingos, a nod to the extinct animals that used to live in District 4.

Because the district hall is by the sea, all the teenagers in the square are coast kids. I've stood with the same group since I was twelve, as we're organised alphabetically by surname. I'm friendly with Jessica Crombez, to my right, which is useful because she's the most informed teenager I know. It comes in handy when we want to know about the state of the careers every year: it's a world we're excluded from, but one that could mean the difference between life and death. So when I make my way to my position, already all the teens around us are leaning in surreptitiously, listening to her analysis.

Jessica gives me a hug when she sees me and fills me in under her breath. "It's bad this year," she sighs. "Remember the fire in one of the factories? The owner managed to petition the mayor to redirect the surplus budget to reconstruction. That means the career budget kind of fizzled out. I think the guys might be alright, remember that super enthusiastic fourteen-year-old who cried when he wasn't selected as a replacement? He's still begging to be in the Games, I'm sure. But I don't think the girls are ready, they'll most likely choose to wait another year." She pats me on the shoulder as I stare at her incredulously. She gives me a little grin before she shrugs. "My uncle works as a janitor at the factories, okay? He hears things." Then she looks me over. My dress is a tight-fitting strappy number with a full white skirt; my aunt simply selects what she thinks will fit and doesn't stop to consider whether or not it might suit my "style." Normally I wouldn't ever be confident enough to wear something like this, but the atmosphere of the reaping has erased that from my mind. "Don't worry, you look really pretty," Jessica reassures me. "You'll have a boyfriend before the year is out, I'm sure of it."

I touch the tube of sunscreen I slipped underneath the ribbon around the waist and tell myself to stop fiddling. My hands drop to my sides. "Only because we all want to get the spousal incentive money," I mutter. Jessica shrugs again, looking amused. "That's our Annie. Ever the romantic…"

Everyone knows that the odds are highly in their favour because there are just so many ballots in the great big glass bowls gleaming up there on the podium. Within the square, we all know that only one tribute from the last ten years has come from where we're standing, where the crews won't have to edit us emerging from the camera-ready crowd. We know this, but every year we're mostly silent. No one really feels up to talking. The perfect day and the sun shining down on us would make us coast kids ecstatic, usually. If this was any other day off, a game of beach volleyball would have been set up by now. Some of the oyster farm kids would have risked filching to celebrate the summer. Possibly even I would have joined in, not participating but laughing at others' jokes, digging my feet in the sand and enjoying the atmosphere. Instead, we nervously try to ignore the stage even as we're excruciatingly aware of its existence. I can feel my shoulders burning, but I'm scared to take out my sunscreen as the crews manning the cameras by the sides scan and frame shots. When I eventually decide to do it anyway, the sight of Gavin Figueras walking towards the eighteens' section makes me stare at my toenails to hide the flush spreading across my cheeks.

I hate this. The worst part is always waiting.

I'm almost relieved when the mayor begins reciting the history of the founding of Panem. From back here, I can't see Raff. I imagine my aunt, standing in the designated viewing area for parents, watching the mayor robotically retell this tale none of us ever wants to hear again. The reading of the Treaty of Treason is even worse. The skin on my shoulders is now sore and I know that by the time I get home, they'll be bright red. I'm used to the heat of District 4, but I'm never stationary for this long, simply letting the sun cook me like a lobster.

The list of District 4's victors focusses our attention on the group sitting up on the podium, who looked as bored as we are until now. As more popular names are read out, they smile and wave at the cameras, no doubt sending the Capitol viewers into a frenzy. When Finnick Odair's name is announced, they even broadcast an audio sound bite of wild cheering, which is probably necessary to maintain the illusion that the real live audiences in the districts actually care about these games beyond hating them to pieces. Of course, I can't see him well from here, but from the group of victors as a whole I gather that the trend this year is expensively casual. They're all wearing loose weave shirts and shorts in beautiful colours, and their hair is styled relatively normally. It's a look that of course gives Finnick an enormous advantage. I wonder if his Capitol fans remember how he stabbed that trident so deep into another boy's stomach, the prongs came out through his back. I wonder if they care.

District 4 hasn't had a winner since Finnick. According to Jessica, the careers despise him for apparently cursing their winning streak. It's true that he's a coast kid, and District 4 winners are never from the coast. But as he waves and grins lazily, I can't imagine him from the coast at all. I can't see him doing a day's work on the boats, dressed like that, acting like that. He's beyond hill folk now: like the other victors, they're part of the Capitol.

Finally, Titus Kang takes the microphone. He's no longer statue still, cutting us to ribbons with his gaze alone. He exudes good cheer and warmth as he gets the crowd working—not us, of course. The Capitol crowd. As he jokes and discusses last year's disappointing result and how this year should be different, I feel the tension in the mass of silent kids surrounding me. My neck is stiff and, with effort, I try to relax. It'll be over soon, I tell myself. It'll be over soon.

Titus makes his hand hover over the glass bowl. He swoops in once, twice. He chuckles and wags his fingers—_no, no!_—as he moves away from side of the bowl to the other. Finally he digs his hand in deep. Selects one. Dramatically flourishes it, reads the name.

There is a split second when I do not connect myself with 'Annie Cresta' because it's not a name that should be sounding out so loud for the world to hear.

That's not me. That's not me. That shouldn't be me.

I look around, and everyone is staring, their expressions full of pity and horror. As if from a great distance, I see Titus flick his head to where a man standing by the side is pointing in my direction as the camera briefly pans away from him. The man on the side is suddenly moving towards me. The kids in the crowd part from him like he carries an infectious disease. "Annie, please make your way up to the podium." Those noises are words, words I can't understand. There is a horrid, sucking sound that I know is someone in agony, and it takes me a moment to realise that it is coming from my throat, my mouth, my lips.

_Me._ I am Annie Cresta. I am seventeen, and today my name has been selected as tribute for the Hunger Games.

I don't know how long it is before the man loses patience and pushes me. That unlocks my feet, and I stumble forwards before I begin walking up to the podium. "Walk there, missy," he hisses, and turns me so I'm not ruining the formation of the crowd. I look behind me as he grabs my arm and tows me into a brisk walk. Everyone around the hole where I left a normal life behind… they look devastated. Turning my face ahead, I see my shocked expression blown up on the screen.

Are those my tears? Am I crying? When I touch my face, my fingertips come back wet.

When I am finally on the podium, the mayor shakes my hand and Titus hugs my shoulders to his side. "Annie Cresta, the hope of District 4!" he proclaims, and winks as he laughs. I've seen what happens next—because we have the distinction of being half a career district, he conducts a little interview. I want to screw up my face or scream so loudly the world shatters before doing this meaningless rite before I die, but instead I'm led to a chair. Out of nowhere, a makeup crew swoops in; they dab my face and spray something in my eyes that makes them feel oddly dry.

I feel like I'm thawing. My skin is crawling off my frame. I look out over the sea of faces, and I hear the slight, angry murmur. I scan the crowd at the front, and there he is. Raff looks like he's going to faint, and for a moment I want nothing more but to dash down to where he is, throw my arms around him. But I know I wouldn't get three steps before they force me back into my seat. I simply look back at him, feeling suddenly ashamed of my initial reaction. I have to be strong, not for myself, but for Raff, for my aunt.

There are no female volunteers this year. It feels like someone has punched me in the gut.

The name of the male tribute is unknown to me. When he's brought up on stage, my heart suddenly balloons into my throat, because he's twelve, this boy is only twelve. His face is so pale right now, I wish I could fold him into a hug, despite the fact that I have never seen him and I don't know him. Titus conducts the interview, and his responses are high and quavering. His voice breaks now and again. When he takes the seat beside me, I look at my trembling hands laid in my lap. I wish with every fibre of thought and emotion in my body that someone older than this boy will volunteer, anyone older will take his place so this boy can live a fuller life.

I hear the clamour of male voices, and two are brought up on the stage. They stand by the boy's chair. When I look up at them, I blink once, twice.

I can't believe what I'm seeing. Gavin Figueras is clutching the boy's arm tightly, and he's urgently whispering something out of the corner of his mouth. He looks at me for a split second and suddenly I know—they're family, or close friends, or something. I wished for this, didn't I? I wished for someone older. With my luck, should I be grateful that at least Raff didn't volunteer? The other volunteer is the one who wanted to replace the tribute from last year. He's interviewing with Titus, pounding his chest and grinning like a maniac.

It's horrid of me, it's absolutely horrid, but I want this boy to be in the Hunger Games. He _wants_ to be in the games. His desire is misguided because he knows nothing but killing while knowing nothing of death, but I want him to be in the arena. I want him to be in the arena rather than Gavin, Gavin who has a life ahead of him. Who _deserves_ to have a life ahead of him. Gavin who gave me oysters last night, and a kiss on the cheek.

Some years, we watch this: the volunteering elimination. The Capitol viewers right now are voting, voting, voting on which boy they want to see kill. The boy they want to see die. And suddenly, I wish that Gavin had been born hideous, born with a deformity, born with cross eyes and a hare lip and whatever else makes people look away uncomfortably. Because we all know that it's not the interview that cuts it, not the answers they give to the questions Titus asks. The Capitol viewers pick the better looking boy or girl every time, irrespective of other attributes they might show. A man with a tablet behind the camera is looking at the screen, and eventually he points.

"Our male tribute is _Gavin Figueras_!" Titus yells, and for a moment I see the live broadcast of the Capitol. They are cheering and hugging and jumping, and it is so removed from my reality that I feel they are on the television show, and I am the one watching.

* * *

Notes: Thank you so much to my one reviewer, Sonia! I'm bad with continuing stories, but that review was honestly one of the loveliest I've read: it was very encouraging. So thank you. If you read this, please review! Constructive criticism is always welcome.


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